A Man Four-Square eBook

The Indians evidently held a hurried consultation
and changed their minds about holding the gorge against
such deadly shooting as this.

“They’re gun-shy,” announced Thursday.
“They don’t like the way we fog ‘em
and they’re goin’ to hit the trail, Billie.”

After one more shot Prince made the mistake of leaving
the shelter of his horse too soon. He swung astride
and found the stirrup. A puff of smoke came from
the entrance to the gulch. Billie turned to his
friend with a puzzled, sickly smile on his face.
“They got me, kid.”

“Bad?”

The cowboy began to sag in the saddle. His friend
helped him to the ground. The wound was in the
thigh.

“I’ll tie it up for you an’ you’ll
be good as new,” promised his friend.

The older man looked toward the gorge. No Indians
were in sight.

“I can wait, but that little girl in the hands
of those devils can’t. Are you game to
play a lone hand, kid?” he asked.

“I reckon.”

“Then ride hell-for-leather up Escondido.
It’s shorter than the way they took. Where
the gulches come together be waitin’ an’
git ’em from the brush. There’s just
one slim chance you’ll make it an’ come
back alive.”

The boy’s eyes were shining. “Suits
me fine. I’ll go earn that name I christened
myself—­Jimmie-Go-Get-’Em.”

Billie, his face twisted with pain, watched the youngster
disappear at a breakneck gallop into Escondido.

Chapter III

Ranse Roush Pays

Jim Thursday knew that his sole chance of success
lay in reaching the fork of the canons before the
Indians. So far he had been lucky. Three
Apaches had gone to their happy hunting ground, and
though both he and Billie were wounded, his hurt at
least did not interfere with accurate rifle-fire.
But it was not reasonable to expect such good fortune
to hold. In the party he was pursuing were four
men, all of them used to warfare in the open.
Unless he could take them at a disadvantage he could
not by any possibility defeat them and rescue their
captive.

His cinnamon pony took the rising ground at a steady
gallop. Its stride did not falter, though its
breathing was labored. Occasionally the rider
touched its flank with the sharp rowel of a spur.
The boy was a lover of horses. He had ridden
too many dry desert stretches, had too often kept
night watch over a sleeping herd, not to care for the
faithful and efficient animal that served him and
was a companion to his loneliness. Like many
plainsmen he made of his mount a friend.

But he dared not spare his pony now. He must
ride the heart out of the gallant brute for the sake
of that life he had come to save. And while he
urged it on, his hand patted the sweat-stained neck
and his low voice sympathized.

“You’ve got to go to it, old fellow, if
it kills you,” he said aloud. “We
got to save that girl for Billie, ain’t we?
We can’t let those red devils take her away,
can we?”